


Portrait of a Man

by Dulcidyne



Series: Portraits Across Thedas Trilogy [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen on a horse, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Painting, with a hint of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4414820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcidyne/pseuds/Dulcidyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was an excellent painting: the man in it heroic, his face imposing to the point of intimidation. She opened her mouth to say that it looked nothing at all like Cullen but stopped and realized that it did look like Cullen the way most people saw him--the way she had seen him when they first met under a sky tattered and full of demons: a soldier, a leader, a man devoted to a cause, a man incapable of smiling probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portrait of a Man

There was a horse in the war room.

In the saddle sat the fully armored (helm and all) Commander Cullen holding his sword aloft-- apparently leading a charge against the windowpanes. His expression of long suffering glimpsed through the metallic jaws of his helm did her in and the Herald of Andraste _nee_ Thaliana Trevelyan, youngest daughter of the seventh most influential family in Ostwick, collapsed against the heavy door in peals of laughter.

“I never thought she’d manage it--and the _horse,_ ” she gasped, clutching her heaving midsection as two pairs of eyes watched her go pink and breathless. Neither shared in her amusement which only made her laugh harder.

“I’m glad you find this so entertaining,” Cullen remarked, disgruntled. He shifted the reins in his free hand and the mare, a fine Imperial Warmblood, echoed his displeasure with a snort.

“How did she ever manage to convince you?” she asked, after regaining some capacity for speech.

“She did not _convince_ me, if you must know.” His sword arm dropped so that he could turn in the saddle and face her better. “There is nothing Josephine could say to persuade me into thinking this is anything more than a complete and utter waste of time.”

And yet, here he was. It would seem that the both of them had underestimated the ambassador. But knowing a similar fate now awaited her did nothing to diminish the hilarity of the moment.

Andraste’s breath, he looked so ridiculous. Thaliana couldn’t resist the urge to tease him. “Was the horse your idea?”

Cullen took the bait all too readily, which told her they’d been at this for quite some time before she came in. Simmering aggravation gave way to righteous indignation in the span of a second. “What? No, of course it wasn’t. Do you think--”

“Ser, I must again ask you to remain still else we shall be here even longer,” the portraitist interjected, tone vaguely threatening. Cullen resumed his dramatic pose at once.

She bit down on her bottom lip but a distinctly unladylike snort escaped anyway. Cullen kept his posture but his eyes flashed over to settle on her, gaze baleful and golden. It was so much like another look, one from stolen moments in twisted sheets rucked up between feverish skin, trembling hands and hot mouths. Desire shuddered through her and suddenly it was difficult to keep standing for reasons unrelated to laughter.

He saw her heady flush for what it was and the corner of his mouth cocked up into the infuriating smile of the man who always won their chess games, no matter how many of his pieces she slipped up her sleeves. That was not a good sign. Usually it prefaced some sort of victory.

Undoubtedly thinking she deserved the discomfort, he fixed his eyes on her and smirked in such a way that she could practically hear his rough whisper against the shell of her ear telling her all the things he could do to her if they were alone. A tantalizing flicker of warmth caressed down her spine. Maker, he was far too good at that.

Well, if he thought he could drive her to distraction--however deserved it may be--without retaliation, he was wrong. And just like their chess games, she was not afraid to cheat a little.

Thaliana leaned against the door, meeting his assurance with a sly smile of her own. Holding his gaze, she dropped her hands to the clasps at her collar and slowly, methodically, began to undo them behind the painter’s hunched-over back.

Cullen gulped, lips parting with a ragged, heavy breath she heard all the way across the room. The intensity in his eyes stilled her hands, pinning them down to the clasp now nestled against her breastband. She could read the struggle in them; wanting more, wanting her to stop. But with the heavy weight of his gaze resting on the enticing valley of skin bared by the undone clasps, it was clear which was winning out.

She withdrew her hands, to his visible relief and frustration. The swell of her breasts just peeked out from the open fabric, but it was enough. The way he looked at her, it was more than enough. A good thing too, her exhibitionism had its limits.

Inclining her head to the side, Thaliana turned her smile sweet, too sweet to be innocent, and sauntered forward to peer over the painter’s shoulder at the vast canvas.

“Do you mind others watching you work, messere?” she asked, bending forward in the guise of scrutinizing some aspect of the painting and knowing that it afforded Cullen an excellent view from where he sat.

“For the Herald of Andraste, I would be honored to make an exception to the rule,” the artist replied in a way that said ‘ _Yes I mind, go away_ ’.

She ignored it. Well, what was the good of the title when she couldn’t use it for selfish gain on occasion? Regardless of his personal feelings on her presence, she was grateful for his preoccupation with his work; if he had turned to address her, the man would have gotten an eyeful.

It was an excellent painting: the man in it heroic, his face imposing to the point of intimidation. She opened her mouth to say that it looked nothing at all like Cullen but stopped and realized that it did look like Cullen the way most people saw him. The way she had seen him when they first met under a sky tattered and full of demons: a soldier, a leader, a man devoted to a cause, a man incapable of smiling probably.

Well, they hadn’t commissioned these portraits to showcase Commander Cullen’s smile--no matter how it made his eyes bright and sun warmed around the edges. Intimidating was the desired aesthetic for something Josephine wanted to display in the great hall in the hopes that it would inspire more generous contributions from the visiting nobility. Warm eyes didn’t convey the sort of military strength that loosened purse strings.

“What is it?” Cullen asked.

She jerked up, realizing that she had been staring at the canvas for much longer than she intended. “Nothing, it’s very...stern.”

A skeptical eyebrow raised beneath the rim of his helm. “You don’t like it.”

The paintbrush paused mid-air, wet pigment beading at the end. “The Inquisitor…dislikes...”

“I don’t dislike it,” she tried to assure the artist, “I just…”

“You do, it’s obvious!” the man cried and with every word, his voice grew more and more shrill. “Now I shall have to start all over with this, with this--” sputtering, he gave up and gesticulated wildly to Cullen, who looked on amused bafflement.

“This _what_ , exactly?”

“This has taken thrice the normal duration and the fault does not lie with my speediness, Ser!”

“So it’s supposed to be my fault? I didn’t even want to do this in the first place,” Cullen demanded.

“Messeres,” Thaliana interjected, imbuing her voice with Inquisitorial authority, “there is no need to redo the painting. I expect Josephine will be extremely pleased by how well you’ve captured our commander’s presence in battle. Now, you will excuse me.”

Not wanting to arrive into the throne room with her tunic undone to her breastband, she stopped just outside the door to the war room and began to redo her clasps. But the metal fumbled between her suddenly clumsy fingers.

“May I be of assistance?” Cullen asked, closing the door softly behind him as he stepped out into the hall with her. He had left behind the helm and his hair was ruffled in every direction without metal to press it down.

She said nothing but let her hands drop to her sides. His thumb caressed up the exposed vee of skin.

“Is that how mine is going to be?” she asked him, turning into his touch as his hand slipped underneath fabric to rub fingertips along the line of her clavicle, “after I’m gone, will people look at my portrait and only see the Inquisitor? Will that be all they remember?”

“I’m certain yours will be much better for several reasons,” he said, dipping his head down to meet her eyes with a half smile. “They probably won’t put you on a horse for one.”

She chuckled and his hand slid up to cup her neck, fingers smoothing over her pulse as his eyes searched hers.

“I do hate your portrait,” she confessed. “You may be the commander of the Inquisition’s forces but that isn’t all that you are. People should see that shouldn’t they?”

For a still moment, she thought he might say something. His lips parted and she could feel the fall of his sudden, rapid exhale gusting over her cheek.  There was something utterly serious about the way he was looking at her, and she fidgeted under the intensity, unexpectedly shy for a reason she could not pinpoint.

“Did I say something--” she started.

Cullen shook his head once and gathered her up, arms tight, almost crushing. It wasn’t the most comfortable embrace--armor didn’t have much give to it. But when his mouth found hers, that ceased to register.

Thaliana grasped at him, listening to the hitch of his breath as the kiss shifted from sweet and yielding to a restless, desperate press of lips and nipping teeth. The hall was tilting beneath the tips of her toes and it felt as if any moment, she’d fall forward into the rippling heat unfurling between them. She wanted to. She wanted to get her fingers underneath his surcoat and armor and press her hand flat against hot skin while he shuddered under her touch.

Her searching fingers fiddled with the leather straps of his cuirass and he pulled away reluctantly, eyes darting down to the open clasps of her tunic. He was just as out of breath as she was, “You can be very distracting, when you put your mind to it.”

He fastened them expertly, the tremor in his hands betraying his equanimity and then laughed when he noticed her expression.

“I’ll find you afterwards,” he promised, arms relaxing. She slid down along the length of him, feeling metal warmed by their embrace underneath the rucked up surcoat. And maybe her hips curved against him just slightly but that was no excuse for him to suddenly step away and press her back against the wall as if she were infected with something and highly contagious.

“Maker’s breath, Thaliana.”

He was flushed, hair even more disheveled than before--compliments of her roaming fingers. She couldn’t stop her smile. It was one of those soft, small ones she usually saved for when he wasn’t looking and it entirely ruined the effect of her glare.

“Don’t take too long,” she said. “Or I’m coming back for you stark naked.”

Limits to her exhibitionism be damned.

* * *

 

“And to think...” Josephine turned from the hulking rectangle wrapped in cloth, looking vastly proud of herself, “this was all made possible by our dear commander’s pride.”

Thaliana ran her fingertips over the cloth covered frame, feeling the curving lines of the ornate filigree beneath. She shot Cullen a look. “He never told me how you managed to convince him. I had every faith that he would hold out forever.”

“You hold me responsible?” he asked. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have based your terms on my resolve.”

“I should have been safe.” Thaliana maintained. “It was tantamount to saying ‘I’ll sit for my portrait when the Maker returns to this world  to play a hand of Wicked Grace with Varric’”  
  
He didn’t smile but judging from the twitch at the corner of his mouth and the brightness of his eyes, he wanted to. “Well, you’ll have something for the next time then.”

Josephine cleared her throat to regain their attention and cut the twine, pulling the fabric away with a flourish.

Thaliana took a step back.

Well, she didn’t hate it as much as Cullen’s. But that wasn’t to say that she liked it.

The woman in the portrait was beautiful, in an otherworldly sort of way. Rosebud lips, elegant brow, sculpted cheekbones, gleaming dark hair. Gone was the scar at her temple and in its place was unblemished alabaster skin that didn’t look at all like it was prone to sunburns or ruddiness.

“I see accuracy wasn’t the intention,” Thaliana said.

Unnatural emerald eyes peered back at her with imperious disinterest that conveyed how little the woman in the portrait cared for the opinions of others--herself included.

“I think he simply captured all your best features,” Josephine offered.

She laughed, impressed with the clever side-stepping of the fact that this woman barely looked like her. “Oh Josie, always diplomatic.”

The only right thing was her chin; the stubborn tilt was just perfect. Her mother always said she inherited the Trevelyan chin and with it, the Trevelyan inability to ever admit to being wrong.

“If I had some variety of small animal on my lap, it would fit in quite nicely with our family gallery in Ostwick,” she said but then reconsidered, “actually, it may not. My face doesn’t look as if I’ve been smelling something terrible my entire life.”

Cullen made an odd sound and she turned just in time to see him cover his smile with his hand before Josie turned to ask him his opinion.

“It’s very...stern,” he said, alluding to her own words from months prior. He meant them the same way she had: he hated it.

Josephine was confused. “Stern?” she glanced at the portrait, “I don’t think…”

Her eyes darted between the two of them, and seeing their shared glance, gave up on trying to discern his meaning. “Oh, Cullen, that reminds me, your commission is on the table,” she indicated the small parcel Thaliana hadn’t noticed before. She then smiled at the two of them and excused herself from the room.

“You commissioned something?” she asked, taking a moment away from her critique of the portrait.

Cullen cleared his throat, hands fiddling with the twine, “Yes...I, well…” he broke off and handed the parcel over in such a rapid motion, she nearly dropped it.

She snapped the twine and he added, “It’s just a trifle.”

The paper fell away to reveal a miniature portrait on vellum, backed onto an oval cut from a playing card. It could easily fit in her palm with room to spare.  Thaliana stared down at it, stunned.

“I had heard that the portraitist Josephine commissioned was also skilled with miniatures.” Cullen drew closer to peer down at it.

Her scar was back and her eyes were a realistic murky green that somehow still sparkled despite not being the color of precious gemstones. The likeness wasn’t as flattering as the full portrait but there was something engaging about the curve of her lips. It looked as if she were keeping an amusing secret.

He picked it up from her cupped palm to examine it for himself and realization dawned. “That’s why I had to sit for so long!” she said.

The miniature absorbed him entirely, and he was staring down at it in a way that made her recall the look from months ago in the hall when she had asked him if people shouldn’t see more than just his role in the Inquisition...the look he gave her right before kissing her senseless up against the wall.

“Not as long as I sat for mine,” he reminded her absently, running a careful finger over the surface of the miniature before glancing up, “I was there for yours, if you recall.”

He had been there, doing paperwork and still managing to be a distraction despite that. And he did talk often with the artist beforehand...and during..and after for that matter. She felt a bit dull in the retrospect for not realizing what had been going on.

“Thank you” she breathed. “It’s perfect.”

But when she extended her hand out for it back, he chuckled. “It is, but it’s not yours to keep.”

Brow furrowing, she asked, “It isn’t? Is it for you then?”

Cullen raised an eyebrow and a slow smile curved at the corners of his mouth. “Is it common in Ostwick for people to keep miniature portraits of themselves?”

“I just thought you commissioned it because of what I said before.”

“I did,” he said softly, taking the parcel from her and shaking loose another oval from the fold of paper where it had caught. Giving it a cursory look, he pressed it into her palm.

“Oh.” she said. And then, “ _Oh._ ”

She suddenly understood Cullen running his finger over the miniature of her because almost immediately, she was seized with the impulse to touch. She wanted to rub a thumb over the little stipples of paint at his temple, the stubbled jaw, the corners of his mouth just ready to smile. Amber eyes regarded her warmly from the vellum and she found her throat suddenly tight. It wasn’t a perfect replication, some of the details were off, but it _felt_ perfect despite that.

“Do you like it?”

His words stirred against her neck and Thaliana could do nothing but press her thumbs into the back of the card and nod.

“I didn’t know how to change what the world saw,” he said, voice low, “but I thought it might be enough if we had something for ourselves that showed a bit of who we are beyond all the impressive titles.”

Arms came up around her and she turned to face him, careful not to crush the miniature between them. He dipped his head low, stubble catching on the strands of her hair curling at her temple. Words stuck in her throat like a hiccup and she buried her face in the elderflower and oakmoss scent of his neck.

All his protests over sitting for his portrait, his irritation and frustration with the whole process and he subjected himself to it all over again to give her this. And seeing the portrait now, she was glad it was just for her, that they had pieces of each other that no one else would ever see.

And best of all, it was a piece she could take with her anywhere--trekking all over Thedas for months on end, cleaning up rifts, sorting out dragons, routing remaining pockets of red templars and venatori; waking up alone in her tent with the bone hollow ache of missing him.

She loved it. She loved him. Maker, how she loved him.

Thaliana tipped her chin up to look at him properly, her smile tremulous, “It’ll be much easier to carry around than the one Josephine commissioned of you.”

“Yes, I’d imagine,” he said before kissing her.

 


End file.
